Dictators Don't Die Easily

Dictators don’t die easily.

Especially when they are holed up in god-forsaken barns in the backwater lanes of rural Scotland, far away from those they have spent their lives terrorizing.

Franklin Jones was not a name that instilled fear by virtue of the name itself, but what did that matter when one could order the death of a hundred thousand people and see it done before their evening bath went cold?

And what was the life of a dictator but one of total control? What was the life of a ruler if it wasn’t getting whatever one wanted?

Franklin was not in this dilapidated old barn because rebels had stormed his mansion and forced him to go on the run. No! He was here because he wanted to see what farm animals looked like before they ended up on the table of his weekly feasts.

Franklin was not constantly nagged by incessant flies and ravenous mosquitoes because he had no where else to stay. No! He was just camping, as all the great conquerors of old once did.

Franklin was not a deposed dictator running for his very life. No! He was just taking a much needed vacation away from all the drama of running a country full of imbeciles too selfish to see that he knew best how to rule their lives.

And so, here he was, seated on his throne of thistle and hay in an old dilapidated barn, sequestered in an overgrown grove, surrounded by an audience of furry and feathered subjects to be ruled.

Lance, the only faithful servant who hadn’t decided to go and die on him in their travels, was out gathering supplies, so Franklin was left with only this paltry audience of farm animals to govern.

Taking a hard look at his courtly company, Franklin decided the ass was most likely to understand him and the easiest to subject.

“Hey ass,” he commanded with an air of supreme expectation, not even bothering to look its way, “come here.”

After a few seconds silence, Franklin looked up at the ass and gave it his most dictatorial stare. The donkey didn’t so much as bat an eye.

“Huh,” Franklin mused, “that works every time on the filth my father left me to rule over.”

Mustering up even greater disdain, Franklin commanded the ass once again, “Come here! I must have a footstool for my throne, and nothing will do but your submissive back. Come here and lay at my feet, that you might be graced with the privilege of my holy feet resting on your lowly shoulders.”

But true to it’s name, the ass merely half-heartedly brayed then turned its ass toward Franklin.

Snuffed by the donkey, Franklin almost drew his pistol to rid himself of the foul creature, but alas, his gun was out of arms reach and he was comfortable where he was.

“Well,” Franklin huffed, “if that stupid ass won’t be my footstool, maybe one of you chickens would consent to be my pillow, and the other two my arm rests. How does that sound my feathery little friends?”

But if Franklin had trouble getting the donkey to pay attention, getting the chickens to even deign him a glance would be more work than any Franklin had ever done in his life.

Seeing initially that the chickens showed no interest in Franklin’s invitation to be his cushions, Franklin decided to lure them closer. But having no feed, nor even knowing what a chicken eats, Franklin simply pulled some straw from his throne and tossed it in the chicken’s general direction.

And surprisingly, they came closer!

As the chickens neared his throne, Franklin reached a hand out toward the closest chicken, thinking to grab the poor creature as soon as it was close enough.

But the chickens stopped, right about where he had thrown the straw, and realizing that what Franklin had thrown was not food, they began to peck their way back to where they had come.

But Franklin would not be denied again. He took another handful of straw and dropped it just at the foot of his throne. Again, the chickens saw the straw and took it for food. And this time, the chickens got close enough that Franklin could just bend forward and grab his new pillow.

Unfortunately for Franklin he had never picked up a chicken in his life, unless it was otherwise steamed, broiled, or fried — and those types of chickens never peck a person’s hand.

Dropping the chicken in a flash, Franklin looked down at the top of his left hand, and there, only a pin-prick big, was a drop of blood. But for as little of his noble blood was spilled from his hand, an infinite amount more flowed to his head and he saw only red.

Forgetting that he was a ruler who had everyone else do his bloody work, Franklin stood to his feet, grabbed his ornate revolver from the hay bail next to his throne, and gunned down the chicken, adding an extra bullet to its brain just to prove his superiority.

With a bullet to the breast and a bullet to the brain, the chicken didn’t so much as squirm. As it should be. It didn’t have a right to live after defying Franklin, so what right did it have to convulse as if it still had a will to live on?

Resting a hand on the head of his throne, Franklin took several deep breaths to collect himself as his blood soaked vision began to wane. As his thoughts cleared, he realized that he now only had four bullets left to his name.

A single gun. Four bullets. One bodyguard. A throne made of hay and thistle. And a retinue of disorderly and disobedient residents occupying his stately barn mansion. Such was his kingdom.

“These damn animals,” Franklin grumbled, “why won’t these damn animals just learn their place? Well, now that I have my gun and now that I’ve stood up, I’ll make sure the rest of these ingrates know their place.”

Looking around at the rest of the animals in the barn, Franklin noticed a large pig. Remembering the fond taste of bacon at every meal, he made up his mind to subject it next.

“I guess I’ll just have to make sure this little piggy knows that she will be my dinner,” Franklin said, “once Lance get’s back with those supplies.”

Walking over to the pig’s pen, Franklin halted when he heard branches breaking and the rustling of leaves a hundred yards or so from the open barn doors.

“Speak of the devil,” Franklin exclaimed to the pig, “looks like I’ll be having you for dinner sooner than I thought. You be a good little piggy and stay right there while I go and get Lance.”

The pig merely snorted in response, not even having the decency to look up at her rightful ruler.

Flashing with anger, Franklin hissed, “I’m going to enjoy eating you, you filthy swine.”

Moving away from the insufferable pig, Franklin stood at the barn doors, looking in the direction where the sound was coming from. But Franklin wouldn’t go outside of the barn. He was a king, a ruler. Some called him a dictator, but they were just the ones too ungrateful to see that their role was to serve him.

So, Franklin waited at the barn doors, and listened, until he was able to see where the sound was coming from.

If only Franklin was a man smart enough to tell the difference between the sound of one man walking through brush, and a group of men barreling though the forest on a mission to depose a dictator.

If only Franklin were aware enough to know that regardless of where he went in the world, people would recognize anyone who was a personal bodyguard of the dictator king, and anyone would be able to pick Lance out of a crowd in a heartbeat.

If only Franklin was keen enough to see that his two gunshots in the middle of nowhere would draw attention for miles around, alerting anyone with attentive enough ears.

And if only Franklin was discerning enough to see that he was the most loathsome and hated man on the face of the earth and that even the most kind hearted people wanted him dead.

But alas, Franklin was neither smart enough, aware enough, keen enough, nor discerning enough to see any of this.

And so, after running for nearly four months, moving from one remote location to another, losing every last one of his over forty bodyguards to pursing rebels, killing indiscriminately as he ran, and finally ending up in a broken barn filled with the worst subjects he’d ever ruled, Franklin stood at the entrance to the barn and shouted Lance’s name, never realizing the man would never respond.

Franklin never heard the hailstorm of gunshots that riddled his body as he shouted his final demands to a man whom he had cared for as much as any of the other millions he had slaughtered on a whim.